Thanks so much again for the encouraging comments. I am really not feeling well, and would have to thank you guys properly later. Polaris: I am sure Fenton would love to kill me, so I made sure Andrew left lots of distractions. Red: Thanks. But I also have to apologize. I haven't been reading any HB fanfic for months already, much less comment on any stories. But it was really nice when I load this chapter to see so many nice comments. Thanks again. Franknjoe: I assure you won't like the 49 chapters version, unless you like silly cliffies every short chapter. I will have to read your update later, but I am sure I would love it. Soory folks, I really got to go back to rest. Still feeling pukey. If this chapter is not up to standard, pls be nice. Cheers, Nomi.
--o--o--
WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS
Chapter Five
-o-
It was five past two in the afternoon. A police car sped down the road, overtaking cars left and right, its siren blaring loudly. Officer Con Riley was at the wheel, his attention fully focused on the traffic around him. Fenton Hardy sat quietly in the passenger seat, his arms holding on tightly to the fourth and final box of shredded paper that was his clue to Frank's location. He just collected it from the playground next to Bayport Public Library.
On the surface, the respectable PI appeared calm. He had to; too many people were watching him. He refused to give either the police or the FBI any excuse to shove him into the sidelines. He would remain an active member of the investigative team. He would find Frank. And then he would find Joe. His sons would be with him when Laura finally awakened from her surgery. Everything would turn out well. Fenton refused to think of anything else.
But deeper down, Fenton knew that was not going to happen. Deeper down, he was afraid for Frank. His enemy planned everything down to the last detail. Andrew Kempton was playing a game with all of them. It was a cruel, diabolical game. It was an effective game from Andrew's perspective. That vicious killer, in a few simple moves, had tied up the limited resources of the police department and the FBI into a manhunt for Frank.
Andrew had drawn a huge map of Bayport and its surroundings, tore that map into pieces, and then fed those pieces through a document shredder. He divided those bits and pieces into four piles and put them into four boxes each with a note for the next pick-up point. He then paid four teenagers to deliver those boxes at hourly intervals in the various playgrounds around Bayport. All four boys were contacted two days ago. All four identified Andrew Kempton as the man who paid them fifty bucks to deliver the boxes to the man in the photograph that he provided at a specified time at the specified playground.
Remember, Frank dies at four… the last note reminded.
'Damn you, Andrew,' Fenton cursed, fighting to keep his fears at bay.
More than a dozen officers had been working on piecing together the thousands of pieces of shredded paper since he got his hands on the first box. More were scouring the streets in vain hope that someone might see something interesting and useful. When he left the office to pick up this last box, they only had a small fraction of the puzzle pieced together. That few small sections they managed to fit together made little sense, much less yield any clues as to Frank's whereabouts.
Even deeper down, terror and guilt were gnawing away at his insides where his younger son, Joe was concerned. The heart to heart talk he had with Joe less than twenty-four hours ago came back to haunt him with a vengeance. 'I love you both equally,' he said to Joe. Yet he had chosen, knowing full well what Andrew was capable of, to personally search for Frank while letting Andrew get away with his younger son. He chose Frank over Joe, and that was the cold hard truth. He favored his elder son…
He swallowed a sob that threatened to burst out of his throat, forcing his mind back to Frank, knowing he had to, or he would lose both his sons. And maybe Laura too, when she found out what he did…
"Here are the last bits of the map!" he announced as soon as he entered the room with Officer Riley following close behind.
Then they were all busy working. Fenton focused on his task as he meticulously try out piece after piece to find the match. They would finish the map on time; the alternative was just not an option. The father gritted his teeth, swallowed his fear, and worked on.
Ninety minutes later, they were staring at the completed map on the table. There was no time for the self-congratulatory mood of a job well-done. They still had to figure out where the victim whom they were attempting to rescue was held.
For a moment, nothing on the map stood out, and Fenton wanted to just throw a chair or two out of sheer frustration. Instead, he forced back his emotions, and let his eyes roam over the map again, letting his mind appreciate the intricacy of various parts of that meticulously hand drawn map that was clearly not drawn to scale. There was the Bayport Public Library with its thick columns, and the Bayport Aquatic Centre with its ten meter diving-platform. Then Fenton saw… the house. He took another quick scan of the entire map just to be certain.
Yes, that is the house, Fenton knew with utter certainty.
"Wayville Lane," Fenton declared decisively. "That house with the domed roof and that two pine trees up front. That's where Frank is."
"How can you be so certain?" One of the FBI agents asked.
"It was the only private residence that was drawn out in detail. All the others with that level of detail were public places. In fact those were where I collected all those boxes of clues from…" Fenton explained.
"I know that house!" one of the Bayport Police Officer suddenly blurted out. "That's 37 Wayville Lane. But no one lives there…"
'Which made it the obvious choice for Andrew,' Fenton realized, as did all the police officers and FBI agents.
They raced for their cars as Chief Collig and FBI agent-in-charge hollered instructions and orders over the police radio. It was twenty to four, and there was no time left for the usual briefing. Ten minutes later, they were gathered before 37 Wayville Lane. Fenton noted gratefully that Chief Collig had called for a bomb squad as well as a paramedic van. They had all agreed earlier that given the nature of the threat from Andrew, a bomb scenario was highly likely.
The house was quiet. No one answered the door. Fenton could see that the garden was overgrown with weeds. With ten minutes left, the police and FBI made the decision to break into the house even before getting the court orders. They were running out of time. They cleared the upper floors, the living room, and the kitchen. They cleared every part of the house. Except for that little wooden trap-door under the dining table that opened to a long, narrow, and dark stairway that led down and down and down… to a metal door at the bottom of the stairs.
And it was less than five minutes to four.
-o-
Frank Hardy woke up with more than a crick in his neck. All his muscles were screaming murder at him. He groaned in pain, but that sound was muffled by his gag. It was hardly surprising; he survived a long session of water-boarding. An involuntary shudder moved through him at that memory. He no longer believed in people holding out against torture; no normal person could. He would have said anything, confess to anything just to get his tormentor to stop. Unfortunately, he was not given that option. Andrew wanted nothing from him save his torment and terror. It was hell. And there was no way he was going to let his little brother go through what he did. No way…
But first, he needed to get out of here. That was easier said than done. He was bundled in a straitjacket and then was tied to a solid and heavy wooden chair. He could barely move. The air was dank and musty, so Frank surmised that he must be underground. He scanned his surroundings. He was the center-piece of a well-lit but windowless room. It did not take long for him to figure out what exactly Andrew had in mind for him. Horror filled him.
Then someone was trying to open the door.
He wanted to warn them not to open the door, but the gag muffled his screams. He fought harder, more desperately, to break his bonds. The ropes refused to budge.
It was almost with a sense of resignation that he turned his eyes to the gun aimed at his chest the moment he saw the door handle turning.
The door slammed opened and he saw two police officers rushed in, their guns held firmly before them. Both hit the ground at the very next instant as the sharp and loud report of a gun echoed through the room.
Frank felt a sharp fiery pain burn through his back which quickly turned numb. There was this long second of silence as he wondered what happened. He glanced downwards and saw his white straitjacket rapidly turning red. He looked up again and saw his father racing towards him, fingers fumbling desperately to cut the ropes and free him from his straitjacket. Suddenly and without warning, a storm of pain and terror rose from nowhere and overtook him, obliterating everything else.
And Frank Hardy was gone before he knew it.
-o-
"NO!" Fenton screamed the moment he heard the sharp report of a gun firing.
He saw the bright red of fresh blood spreading on Frank's chest. His heart missed a beat. No again, Fenton thought as he shoved the two police officers aside and raced towards his son.
The bullet could have miss the heart, the father reminded himself with forced optimism as he worked desperately to free Frank from the straitjacket so he could assess the extent of his son's injuries.
That was a mistake.
The moment he ripped the straitjacket off, Fenton saw that he had been had. The blood was from a burst bag, and it seemed that the gunshot was a blank. Then he saw that dart on the floor behind Frank.
Something hard and heavy hit him forcefully in his chest, sending him tumbling backwards across the room. Fenton looked up just on time to see Frank's feral eyes on him. His son was literally foaming at the mouth. There was a low primal and animalistic growl, and Frank pounced with his clawed fingers aiming for his neck…
-o-
From the top floor of an apartment unit several blocks away, Andrew Kempton watched the entire operation through his telescope. Too bad he could not personally witness what happened down in the basement he dug and built.
But he could see that the damage Frank wrought was extensive. There were several officers with bleeding faces and arms. It appeared that at least one officer had a broken leg. But most importantly, it was clear from the awkward angle of Fenton's arm that it was broken.
"Well done Frank! I knew you wouldn't let me down," Andrew gloated, his hand patting the formula in his pocket. His client would be most pleased with the effectiveness of his 'berserker concoction'.
Andrew's smile widened as he drank in the agonized expression on Fenton's face as four well-build FBI agents made their way out of the house dragging a clearly crazed and out of control Frank who had been re-strapped into that stained straitjacket.
"Ah Fenton, you should really be thanking me for providing you with the tools to restrain your son. Imagine what those FBI agents would do to Frank if they had to resort to knocking him out…. Oooh, good kick Frank," Andrew winced in mock sympathy as one of the FBI agents cut too much slack with one of Frank's legs and got a good kick in his groin. "Perhaps I should have included something for his legs…"
He chuckled as he watched the paramedics rushed forward to administer a sedative. He enjoyed their frustration when the sedative failed to take effect. They would try a muscle relaxant next, Andrew knew. He did his homework and knew every single step those paramedics were trained to take. He made sure that would not work either.
The paramedics were now shaking their head vigorously in response to something the agents were yelling about. He could almost hear them telling the agents and Fenton that they would risk rupturing Frank's heart if they were to give him any more medication. He could see that Frank was already starting to gasp for breath, but the young man was still fighting without regard to his own state of health. The multitude and quantity of drugs were fighting for supremacy and overloading the young man's system…
Andrew turned away from the telescope and started packing up. He had seen enough, and he had a train to catch. The paramedics and the paramedics would have to transfer Frank to the hospital the long hard way. What an enjoyable thought!
Of course Fenton would come after him for Joe. That was the point. He wanted the PI to. But he also wanted to be the one holding all the cards. With Laura dead, Frank hopefully psychologically crippled at least for a while, and Joe missing, Fenton should be feeling desperate. That was good, because desperate men made stupid mistakes.
'Poor Fenton,' Andrew mocked. 'You really should not have tangled with me. But I so love a challenge.'
He picked up his briefcase, exited the apartment and locked it. It was time to start working on his relationship with his newly adopted son. Would Fenton know what he had in mind for his younger son, Andrew laughed silently all the way as he drove away from Bayport. There were no road blocks. Why should there be? They all believed he left Bayport six hours ago…
-o-
It was hard, but the father forced himself to do it. Fenton stood at the door to the well-padded cell, watching over his elder son for the last two hours through the tiny glass window. Frank was still strapped into a straitjacket. They also forcefully put a muzzle and a helmet onto Frank. He had no choice but to agree. A number of agents and paramedics were currently undergoing treatment for bite wounds. Frank fought like a cornered animal. In a sense, Fenton supposed he was. He could only be grateful that the police and agents had made every attempt to be gentle with his son despite the injuries that Frank inflicted on them.
There was another dull thud against the padded wall and the father winced. He hurts every single time Frank threw himself mindlessly against the padded wall. It hurts for him to see his level-headed and intellectual son reduced to this rabid animalistic state.
What on earth did Andrew give to Frank? The father raged helplessly.
A cocktail of unknown psychedelic drugs with chemical structures similar to those of the phenethylamine, desoxypipradrol and piperazine family, the forensic scientist told him. Home-made cocktail of designer drugs with strong components of hallucinogen, stimulants, and pain-inhibitors, the doctor explained in lay man terms, plus a host of other components that were yet to be identified. The only good news to Fenton was the fact that the half-hourly blood test showed that the concentration of those drugs in Frank's blood were declining steadily.
It was another hour before Frank caved in to exhaustion. That was also when the doctor said that Frank's system was almost clear. They transferred the unconscious youth from the padded cell to a private room. Given that no one had any idea as to the after-effects, the doctors had Frank securely strapped to the medical gurney for safety's sake. Fenton insisted on staying with Frank. Someone had to be there to explain to Frank why he was strapped down. That someone was preferably family. And he was the only family left who could do that.
Laura was recuperating in the ICU. Joe was still missing. A sharp pain stabbed his heart. Fenton knew that there was no way for him to get to Joe before Andrew started whatever he was planning. He was selfish; he knew it was going to hurt, and hurt real bad. But he still prayed fervently that Andrew meant to drag out Joe's suffering and not kill him. He rather had Joe back alive, and he would spend the rest of his life to help Joe recover if he had to.
'Just hang in there, Joe. Hang in there… I will find you, I swear I will…' the guilt-stricken father swore.
But who was he kidding? He had no idea where to start looking, and that was not even taking into consideration the fact that he was now sporting a broken right arm.
"I'm so sorry I failed to protect you," the father whispered guiltily to his elder son who was finally resting and sleeping. "But I know you can beat this. The doctors said your system's almost clear…"
Fenton reached out to stroke his son's pale face gently. "You have to, Frank. Because I need you, and Joe needs you too…"
His voice broke. How was he to explain to Frank and Laura when they wake up? He could not…
He did He had no choice. Joe was missing.
They were both mad at him, though only for a very short while. Then the anger was set aside as all efforts were poured into finding Joe.
-o-
Somewhere in the Smokies, William was quietly studying his father's notes as he prepared another little cocktail for his new little brother. So far, his new little brother was reacting as he should. And his father was right; Joseph's going to be a much hardier and better toy to play with than Jonathan. It would be another day before his father arrives. His father would be pleased with his work.
The alarm rang. He could not help that gleeful expression. It was fun time again.
-o-o-0-o-o-
I woke up to a maelstrom of pain and confusion, not to mention a parched throat. There was a bottle of water next to me. I drank thirstily. My throat felt better after that. I had no idea this was not the first time I woke up in this room and in this state of mind.
Where was I?
I was lying on a narrow hard surface in almost total darkness. There was a faint slit of light from the floor. That must be where the door was. I tried to sit up, but the attempt exhausted me so much so I sank back onto the narrow bunk I was lying in.
Why was I feeling so unnaturally weak and achy all over?
Was I sick?
If I was sick, then why weren't I in a hospital?
I tried to move again. This time, I felt the weight around my left ankle. Slowly I reached out to feel it. I was shackled my by left ankle to the wall. I was a prisoner.
Suddenly, I felt panic rising in me.
Who was I?
It took me a while to force back the rising panic. Then I remembered my name. It was Joe. Joe Hardy… I was glad I remembered, and I hung on to my identity tight as I could mentally. It was the only asset I had at the moment. Everything else was fuzzy to me. More terrifying was the fact that no matter how hard I tried, I could not remember details of my past. All I could get was some vague impressions that meant nothing…
Footsteps, there were footsteps heading my way. The door opened, and the lights came on. It was dim, a single bulb in the center of this little windowless room.
The person who stepped into the room for some reason appeared familiar. Where had I seen him before?
"I see you're awake, little brother," he said.
A vague memory flashed. I was having a great time playing with another person who looked sort of like the person standing before me right now. Then I knew I really had a brother. A big brother… and his name was Frank…
"Frank?"
Something did not feel right about me calling that person by that name. But he did look similar…
"Welcome home, little brother," the Frank apparition smirked. "Dad will be back tomorrow. And payback will start…"
Something in that tone and that voice chilled me. Frank did not speak like that. Not in that tone. Right? Again uncertainty hits me.
"No, you're not Frank. You can't be Frank…" I told myself over and over, forcing myself to ignore that Frank-apparition towering over me. "You are not my brother…"
"You can lie to yourself all you want, little brother," the Frank-apparition taunted. "But you cannot hide from the truth forever, Joe…"
"Frank loved me… my brother loves me… we got along very well…" As I said that, I knew somehow that was true.
"I did. Love you. Until you killed Mom. Tell me why I should love you after that?"
"I…"
I wanted to yell back that I would never kill my own mother. But suddenly, I felt uncertain. I killed Mom… Did I? Did I? But why? Why did I do that? Why?
"You killed Mom, little brother," 'Frank' said in a cold angry tone. 'Shot her through her heart.'
A vague memory of me holding a gun assailed me. My heart beat harder, faster. I suddenly saw this pair of desperate pale blue eyes staring at me. I shook my head vigorously. No, that could not be true. Why would I kill my own mother? I would not, would I? But if I did, my brother would rightfully hate me. So would my Dad… I desperately tried to rack my brains for confirmation. But my brains simply refused to cooperate.
"And now you have to pay…"
I never saw the fist coming. It hit hard in my guts. I doubled over in agony. I deserved it, my big brother kept telling me.
Was that right? Did I deserve this for killing Mom?
Still the pain was unbearable. I think he bruised my ribs. I begged for Frank to stop. He did not. I knew those blows. They were all well-placed for maximum pain, not damage. Frank was a black belt Karate. He would know what he was doing.
"If I really killed Mom, then hand me over to the police…"
"That would be far too easy on you, little brother," 'Frank' laughed as he gave me a final kick. "This is by far a better and fun way…"
And then he left, still laughing.
I felt betrayed.
That could not be right. Something deep within me was crying out that Frank would never hurt me.
Still the betrayal cuts deep. It cuts very deep indeed…